In the sunlight, I felt embarrassed about my overreaction. So Roza was sleeping with Ian: So what? It was a little surprising—he’d seemed like a bit of a creep—but they obviously went back a long time.
More shaming, though, was that I’d snuck up to her door in the first place. What on earth had made me act like a curious, horny twelve-year-old boy? I was lucky no one had caught me.
Wrapped in fluffy towels, I sat at the desk. The sky was a bright, cloudless blue. A sparkling layer of snow covered the backyard. I envisioned throwing my laptop through the window, shattering the glass, watching it land with a poof in a snowy pile.
The first writing group session was at two. It was currently 8:30. I had to come up with a novel idea by the afternoon and then write 3,000 of its opening words.
Back home, that would be impossible. But we were living by Roza’s rules now. And after a full night of sleep, I felt oddly confident. The right idea was there, just slightly beyond my reach. I got ready, grabbed a notebook and pen—how awful would it be for that idea to burst into being and then slip away before I could catch it?—and headed downstairs.
Scents of savory breakfast foods filled my nostrils as I neared the dining room.
“Morning!” Taylor was at the table, green/blond hair mussed from sleep, still in pajamas. I noticed she’d slipped her rabbit necklace on and it clashed with her plaid top. Her laptop was open next to her.
“Morning.”
She motioned to the buffet. “Grab some food. It’s delicious.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” I pulled the top off the first tray to find a half-eaten pan of breakfast potatoes glistening with oil and rosemary. “I could get used to this.” I didn’t usually eat a big breakfast, but now I loaded up my plate.
“How’s it going?” I sat two chairs down. “You still working on your idea?”
“Oh, no.” She picked up a piece of toast, revealing vines of purple flowers that climbed up her wrist. “I came up with that pretty quickly, thank god. I’m trying to get a head start on the daily word count. Three thousand is no joke.”
“Seriously.” My stomach filled with dread.
“You?” She gestured at my notebook.
I paused, chewing. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Of course.” She grinned, eyes wide and waiting.
“I’ve had writer’s block this whole last year.” I felt a rush of relief saying it out loud.
“Damn.” Her eyes softened with concern. “You poor thing. Because of Wren?”
“What?” The name made my shoulders tighten.
“Didn’t you say you had that friend breakup a year ago?”
“Yeah.” Taylor was more perceptive than I’d taken her for. “We did.”
“It has to be connected, right?”
“Probably.” I swallowed a mouthful of eggs. “I haven’t totally psychoanalyzed it yet.”
Taylor watched me thoughtfully as we ate. “Hey.” She pushed her plate away and closed her laptop. “Keira’s in the library. When you’re done, why don’t we go see her? Maybe being around all those books will spark some ideas.”
I agreed, and fifteen minutes later Taylor was leading us confidently to the library. I wondered if she’d further explored the house that morning; she seemed to know her way around.
“Have you seen Ian at all?” I asked, wondering if he and Roza were still entangled in bed.
“Nope. But his car wasn’t in the drive this morning.” Taylor nudged me. “Why, you have a thing for older English gentlemen?”
I chuckled. “He’s not my type. Just curious who’s all here.”
“Just us, Roza, Chitra, and my favorite person… Yana.”
We entered a hallway lined with windows that showed the backyard. Something bright caught my eyes. Two figures in puffy coats and bright knit ski caps were marching over the snow, heading towards the woods.
“Oh,” I said. Taylor turned back, followed my eyes.
“Poppy and Wren,” she said. “They mentioned they were taking a break and going for a walk this morning.”
“Cool.” I said it too loud. Why not? Poppy was rooming with Wren, and Wren could be infinitely charming, especially to a cute twenty-something like Poppy. It wasn’t like Poppy and I had fallen into an intense, immediate friendship the day before while traveling together. But I still felt a tiny sting of betrayal.
The library looked even more majestic in the sunlight. Keira sat in one of the overstuffed chairs by the fireplace, a stack of books on the floor beside her.
“K!” Taylor strutted towards her. “Miss me?”
Keira looked up, smiling and adjusting her glasses. “So much.” Today her braids were down, pulled over her shoulder. Again she wore all black: leggings, a loose button-up shirt, and patent leather lace-up oxfords.
“Hey.” I waved, feeling a flush of self-consciousness in Keira’s put-together presence. Sure, Taylor was in her pj’s, but her hair and tattoos made it seem punk. I’d dressed quickly in jeans and a gray sweater that now felt vaguely mom-like.
“Hey, Alex.” She turned her smile to me. “How’d you sleep?”
“Pretty well. How about you?”
“Not great.” Keira stared at the ground and fingered the lion charm on her necklace. “I had a nightmare.”
“About what?” Taylor settled on the couch.
Keira finally looked up. “Don’t remember. Just left me feeling disturbed.”
“I’m sure it’s the house. Definitely haunted.” Taylor yawned and pointed to the stack of books. “What are you researching?”
“Well, speaking of this house… I was looking into Daphne.”
“That’s a great idea for a novel,” I said, impressed.
“You want it? Take it. Unfortunately, it’s not clicking for me.” She tossed a book onto the stack and rubbed her eyes. “I need to get more coffee. And maybe take a stroll around Blackbriar, since it might be my last day here.”
“It won’t.” Taylor jumped up and held out her hand. “C’mon, I’ll walk with you and we’ll brainstorm.”
“You have the time to brainstorm?” Keira raised an eyebrow.
Taylor grinned. “I’m at almost two thousand five hundred.”
“I hate you.” They laughed and I forced myself to smile. Fear stirred in my belly. Wren and Poppy must be doing well, too, if they were taking the time to go for a walk.
I really needed to figure something out. Fast.
“Coffee?” Taylor asked me.
“I might stay and look at these books. If you’re cool with that, Keira.”
“Of course.” They walked out together, chatting and laughing. When had they become so friendly?
Whatever. I had a plot to figure out. I settled into Keira’s seat and grabbed the first book on the pile. The cover showed a black-and-white photograph of Daphne draped in a lace shawl, her dark-rimmed eyes closed as she scribbled on a pad. It was the same photo that was now a painting in the front hall. The book’s title was Daphne Wolfe: Feminist, Artist, Spiritualist. I paged through the first chapter.